


Wreck

by INMH



Series: hc_bingo fanfiction fills 2017 [35]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Semi-Graphic Description of an Injury, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 17:55:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12687273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: “This is going to hurt like a mother.” “Just do it.” Established Haytham/Shay.





	Wreck

**Author's Note:**

> IDK man this Shaytham one-shot train just keeps chugging. I’m not even planning these I’m literally just sitting down and writing them in one go.

“Hold still.”  
  
Haytham lies back, flinching when the back of his neck touches ice-cold water. It’s ungodly cold out, and his breath fogs the air above him when he breathes. It’s so cold that his leg is somewhat numb, but not numb enough to mask the pain that arises when Shay pulls back his pant-leg to evaluate the damage beneath.  
  
“Christ, that’s not good.”  
  
It isn’t a surprise, honestly; when the boat slammed against the shore Haytham felt the broken wood tear into his leg, and he knew then and knows now that whatever damage there is will be extensive. He can already see far too much blood seeping onto the wet sand beside him.  
  
Haytham pushes himself up onto his elbows and looks at his leg. Shay isn’t wrong- it’s pretty damn bad. The wood ripped a long, deep gash along his shin, and the blood coming out it a dark, arterial red. Shay pops out his hidden blade and proceeded to slice off part of his long coat. “Brace yourself,” he says as he prepares to wrap the leg, “this is going to hurt like a mother.”  
  
“Just do it.” Haytham is concerned about blood-loss, and the fact that it will take the crew of the Morrigan at least an hour to realize something is wrong, and at the very least another half an hour to navigate the treacherous tides to reach the shore. In that time, as badly as he’s bleeding, he’ll easily bleed out.  
  
But having it wrapped does hurt, it hurts _horrendously_ , and Haytham growls through his teeth and digs his fingers into the sand. Shay moves quickly, hands steady despite the fact that they’re both soaked to the bone and freezing. The gash will need cleaning and stitching later, and it’s a wretched thought, because the pain is bad enough with a cursory wrapping.  
  
“Nearly done,” Shay gasps, swiftly bringing his arm up to wipe rainwater from his face and eyes.  
  
Haytham shuts his eyes, grinds his teeth together, and does his damndest not to make a sound. When it’s done, and Haytham’s leg is throbbing so madly that he can barely keep his voice steady, Shay gets to a crouch and says, “Hang in there, I’m going to pull the boat over.”  
  
He painstakingly drags (what remains) of their half-destroyed rowboat as close as possible, and Haytham watches as Shay digs at the sand and wedges the shattered wood into it, until there’s an overhang that he can maneuver Haytham and himself under. It’s not perfect, but it keeps out the worst of the rain, and will at least do something to reduce their odds of freezing before the crew realizes they need assistance.  
  
Shay says something, but it’s lost on the wind. “What?” Haytham asks.  
  
“How’s the leg?” Shay repeats, louder now.  
  
Throbbing, aching, just this side of agonizing, and all Haytham can think of is how the previously healthy and undamaged skin is now torn and bloody and likely going to be horrendously infected by morning at this rate. Apart from the predictable concerns for his health and safety, being ill is just going to be _so_ inconvenient.  
  
“Manageable,” is what he says out loud, because at this moment he is not fevered or dying and so there’s nothing quite worth complaining about.  
  
“That’s a load of shit,” Shay responds with no pretense whatsoever, letting the full weight of his accent rest on each word the way he does when he’s trying to bait Haytham. As it is, Haytham’s not in the mood to bite and doesn’t argue, and that probably goes a long way in convincing Shay that he _is_ , in fact, dying.  
  
Shay curls an arm around his shoulder, and Haytham grunts warningly.  
  
“They can’t see us.”  
  
There’s a risk they could.  
  
“We’ll see them coming before they see us.”  
  
There’s a chance they won’t.  
  
“Relax.”  
  
If only.  
  
Haytham can’t call what he’s doing _relaxing,_ even if his eyes are getting heavy and his grasp on the waking world is growing more tentative. But it isn’t as though he can just pull away from Shay, and so he just resigns himself to it and leans in, hoping to _God_ that the other man is paying bloody attention to the ship.  
  
“If they see us,” Haytham says, voice slurring, “I’ll throttle you.”  
  
“You can throttle me all you like when your leg’s been put to rights,” Shay drawls, and Haytham rolls his eyes shut.  
  
“Just watch for the bloody ship.”  
  
“Aye, Sir.”  
  
-End


End file.
